


You Stand Tall

by phantomas (sil)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sil/pseuds/phantomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written in 2006</p>
    </blockquote>





	You Stand Tall

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006

You stand tall, your back straight. Marine posture, once learnt, never forgotten.  
Just like with the pain. Keep it inside; don't let it cloud your judgement. If you can't, if it's too much, too hard, if it's unbearable, then you're not the man for the job.

And there are the boys to consider.

Dean's small hand is practically glued to yours. Little Sammy is thankfully asleep after a restless night of crying. You weren't sleeping anyway. It shows in your eyes, their strange emptiness, the dark tinge of your skin under them.

They lower the coffin. It moves slowly, hesitant almost. It stops for a few seconds. Something in the mechanism. Your heart beats louder. Then everything keeps going, the light blue sky above the graveyard filled with breeze and vanished dreams.

The priest's voice is soothing, lulling you into believing that this may be a dream. You look at the people around you, their dark clothes, the flowers in their hands, splashes of bright, vivid colors against the backdrop of death.

Dean leans his head against your leg. He's tired. He tried to hold Sammy and rock him to sleep last night. John just couldn't but stand there and look at his infant son asking for his mother in the language known only to them. He didn't have an answer, for the screaming question coming from Sammy's lungs.

_This is a waste of time._

Your attention snaps back to the proceedings of your wife's funeral, a Polaroid finally dry, dark shapes and off-tilt colors. Let's get on with it, you want to say. Let's go. I need to buy milk for Sammy. Diapers. Baby's clothes. A little blanket, soft, because he's got such delicate skin. Everything that was Sammy's burned with his mother. Dean needs shoes. I have to file the insurance claim. Talk to my bank manager. Mary is dead. Mary is dead. We all know that. Why keep this going?

_I need to.  
Do something.  
Anything._

You know where the gun is. Right now it's in the gloves compartment in the Impala. You don't know why it is one of the first objects you retrieved from what was left of your house. But you know you spend too much time closed in the spare bathroom Mike's wife lets you and the boys use as your own, looking at the gun in your hands.

The priest is done. The speech is finished. You can go now. Someone rubs a gloved hand on Dean's back, and he looks up at you, eyes half closed against the light. You can't look at him. You just squeeze his hand, not too hard. Feel his smaller one leaving yours, the warm sweat from it cooling right away, a loss that seems overwhelming, that chills your blood.

Your boy takes little steps to the edge of the grave. He has daisies in his hand. Simple white flowers, small and a little lilted already. He lets the flowers go, a graceless fall of death on death.

You feel the impact of his little body against your leg, when he runs back to you, and your hand goes to his hair. Still, you can't look at him. He doesn't talk. He hasn't talked in days. Baby Sammy starts sniffling. As the other mourners queue up to pay their homage to the coffin, you turn around, taking the space between you and your car in strides, hearing the trot of Dean's feet beside you, his hand newly grasped in yours, baby Sammy held firmly against your chest. He's awake now. His little fingers reach up to your chin.

_There's so much to do._


End file.
